


To heal a wound

by SkyEventide



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Love, Feanorians & Nolofinweans - Freeform, Gen, Maedhros is here in absentia, Politics, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Reconciliation, Regret, but the very difficult sort, main relationships got tagged, most of the characters mentioned get an interaction with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: A large eagle casts a long shadow upon the earth.« A bird of Manwë », Tyelkormo says, squinting at the sky, concern painted on his face.It curves west, then glides downwards.~Maglor gets a message at the Feanorian camp: Maedhros is alive, saved from Thangorodrim by Fingon. That story is well-known. But what happens among the Feanorians in the immediate aftermath? And what about that first true conversation with Fingolfin?
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Curufin | Curufinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Curufin | Curufinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 24
Kudos: 59





	To heal a wound

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a "Maglor has a bad time" fic, then it developed into, well, this. There's more scenes I want to write, from many more POVs, but I felt this piece was finished as it is. Maybe I'll make a series of it, or add more chapters in the future. Thank you notes are at the bottom.
> 
> Language notes:
> 
> 1\. Quenya names are used throughout. Nelyafinwë/Nelyo/Russandol is Maedhros, Macalaurë/Cáno is Maglor, Tyelkormo/Turco is Celegorm, Carnistir/Moryo is Caranthir, Curufinwë/Curvo is Curufin, Tyelperinquar is Celebrimbor. Ñolofinwë is Fingolfin, Findekáno is Fingon, Findaráto is Finrod, ĺrissë is Aredhel.  
> 2\. Pityo is the older twin, Telvo is the younger twin. Telvo's mother name is Umbarto>Ambarto (I'm... using a mixed headcanon here that you'll discover in the fic probably), and since he has a bigger speaking role he is tagged as Amrod. However, he is called Ambarussa by Finrod, as most used that name for both.  
> 3\. Thorondor is called in the fic Thorontar, his Quenya name. In pronunciation, that would be Sorontar. However, the time it comes up is in written text, and the letter prounced as th/s still exists as its own separate grapheme. Therefore Fingolfin writes Thorontar, even if he'd pronounce it without Shibboleth.  
> 4\. Moringotho is a Quenya name for Morgoth, Angamando is Angband.

A large eagle casts a long shadow upon the earth.

« A bird of Manwë », Tyelkormo says, squinting at the sky, concern painted on his face.

It curves west, then glides downwards.

*

The messenger’s stoic face barely twitches as she bends her shoulders ever so slightly before Macalaurë. No one had bowed their heads or shoulders when he had last met with Ñolofinwë and his people, no one had even lowered their eyes. Her eyes are lowered now, sombre.

Macalaurë takes the sealed message from her hands and wonders what has changed.

« Give her water and meat », he says, stepping backwards and eventually turning.

He walks to the fort’s main building, Ambarussa following, and soon all his brothers join him in the main street.

Tyelkormo’s eyes are hawkish. « What do they want? »

« We shall see soon. »

The room that in the long years turned into something of an office is at the centre of the fort, once their war room. The large table cut from pine wood was ever covered with maps, maps slowly filled, slowly drawn, as the world beyond Aman revealed itself. But there had been no joy in the discovery.

Curufinwë has claimed a chair at the right side of the large table, Tyelkormo leans cross-armed against the wall. Telvo has joined his older twin on the way there, now he stands hip against the table as Pityo slides to the back of the head chair. Carnistir enters last with a scoff: « So now they write us? I thought Moringotho’s cats had stolen their tongue. »

Macalaurë sits at the head of the table and cuts the seal open with a knife.

_To Canafinwë Macalaurë,_

Ah, his uncle, still not using any titles.

_I write you today under the most peculiar of circumstances. The next few days will be crucial in determining whether they are joyful or not._

_Finding that my brother’s people now called you their King came as no small surprise. Yet, upon hearing the fate of your brother, I readily admit that many of us grieved the loss of his intellect and strength, and chiefly among them Findekáno, who was once his friend._

_Nonetheless, my son in his rashness, that I still hesitate to call courage, set forth in secret towards Angamando, journeying with but his harp, a bow, and his sword, looking for your brother._

_And nephew, I do not know by the will of which benevolent fate this came to pass, but Findekáno found your brother and brought him back on the wings of Thorontar. The circumstances of the rescue are not such that should be explained by letter, but I invite you to my camp at your earliest convenience, that you may meet your brother again._

_Allow me a personal note. Nelyafinwë’s condition is dire and I urge you come as soon as possible._

_King Ñolofinwë Arakáno_

His hands shake, a convulsed tremble that twitches through his nerves. Nausea flares in his stomach as he is seized by a cold sweat.

Alive? Nelyo—alive? It has been many years – so many years, too many years. And Findekáno…?

He breathes in all too sharply, finding that he has trouble with breathing out. He drops the message on the desk, the tengwar taking the shape of knives, each of them a stab. Pityo is leaning down over his shoulder, silent.

He sees Tyelkormo step away from the wall, he even hears him ask what the missive says and get no answer, and watches his hands as they pick up the message, as he reads it, his grey eyes jumping from line to line.

Surreal.

How terribly surreal it is to see his younger brother’s face transform from concern and confusion to a wide-eyed shock, blanching in his cheeks, shuddering.

« Findekáno found him? », Tyelkormo says, disbelieving. But disbelief is quick to turn to anger, a boiling hot anger that pushes through the surface, raw, pained, painful, high in volume, his voice rising. « _Findekáno found him?_ He was – Nelyo was alive! Findekáno went – and _found him!_ »

The truth is that they all know even before Tyelkormo has begun shouting. That they pick up on the whispers of Macalaurë’s horror and understand.

« I asked so many times », Tyelkormo continues, hurling furious sorrow through his teeth, « to organise a rescue! Over and over, I argued for it! What did you say, Cáno? What did you say! »

_Sit down and sheathe your weapon, or I shall make you._

He doesn’t answer now.

 _We will not go. I swore to him we would not follow, no matter what, but even if I hadn’t, embarking on this endeavour now would be our ruin. We lost too much. I hear your protests, but we must count him dead. As much as it grieves me, in this hour I speak as King_.

Curufinwë has not moved. He grips the edge of the table and stares at the wall ahead as if a statue, cracked all over, about to crumble, and Macalaurë is afraid he might explode into wild flames like the body of their father.

His breath still catches, shallow and fast.

He cannot hear what Tyelkormo says next. He watches Moryo step between them and point an accusing finger at Turco. « Enough with that! We have all done— »

Telvo covers his eyes, a strangled sound too close to a sob leaves his throat. Pityo places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him outside, and Curvo also stands to go, the movement like a snap, the immobility of his eyes hard to bear, the light in them a feeling so honed it might cut.

Voices are confounded into one another; Tyelkormo storms out, the room falls prey to silence. The message lies half crumpled on the desk, its last unspeakable words a sickening throb in his belly. Macalaurë breathes in and out, sitting slanted on the chair, a hand shaking on the table, the other on his knee.

Year after year, spent denying any suggestion to even make the attempt, until, even if Nelyo had been captured alive, Macalaurë was certain that the wait had killed him instead. Year after year bearing the burden of having condemned his brother to a death in the darkness. Year after year not regretting the choice of saving as many of their own as he could.

Year – after year – until none of them even hoped or mentioned it anymore.

He may be fainting.

The hand on his shoulder is Moryo’s.

Macalaurë looks up.

« Cáno, you are pale as snow. »

His brother steps over to the carafe of water, pouring a cup. The sound of it against the metal too high-pitched and crystalline.

« You should have told Turco to shut his mouth. The cur », Moryo continues, handing the cup to him.

Macalaurë takes a sip, wetting his lips, then sets it on the table. Just as Telvo did, he also lifts his hand and covers his eyes. First, it is a shudder; then tears flow out in breathless hiccups as Macalaurë bends over himself, under the touch of Moryo’s hand, and weeps. 

*

« Have you considered », Curufinwë says, his voice flat and even, « that they might be lying? »

Macalaurë looks up from the boots he is lacing, pausing in the movement of his fingers. His brother leans against the wall, his fingers laced loosely together just below his belt.

« If Ñolofinwë », he says, with the slowness of a warning, « has so very little honour that he would use Nelyo’s name to… what, pray tell? Lure me in his camp? If he were to stoop so low, then indeed Mandos’ doom was truly spoken. But whatever my thoughts about him may be, I have a higher opinion of his stature than… that. »

He slowly dresses himself, sharing silence with his brother.

Macalaurë’s clothing is not modest: he doesn’t come with his hair loose from shame and his robes unadorned in humility. But it is not opulent either: even had they brought such luxuries with them in their journey, this is no feast, no triumphant homecoming.

Eventually, as Macalaurë clasps his cloak about his shoulders, Curufinwë breathes out. « I will come with you. »

« …Wherefore? »

« You cannot go alone, now, can you? »

« Telvo and two of my lieutenants are coming. »

« Telvo? »

« Indeed, I can use some politeness. »

Curufinwë snorts. « Do you know what Moryo calls Telvo’s politeness? He calls it passive-aggression. »

« Well, I shall settle for passive-aggression. »

Macalaurë doesn’t rise from his chair; since the sun has risen for the first time, the colours of the wood, its knots, have become more brilliant. The light is white, sharp, no longer the mellow, honeyed golds of Laurelin in the noontide of Valinor. It hurts his sight.

He looks up. Curufinwë’s face is taut and tense, aged in strange ways, his brow stern, and his eyes bright and hard as diamonds, nursing an unnameable discontent. His thoughts have the feeling of steel, though Macalaurë cannot read them, for his brother’s mind is locked as a vault.

« …How are my eyes? », he asks.

« Still puffy. »

Macalaurë sighs. He shall risk the embarrassment.

He can grant, perhaps, this one thing to his brother – accompanying him, as he did not the first time they met with Ñolofinwë.

« Curvo », he says, suddenly. « How do you feel? »

Thus he witnesses the hardness fade from his brother’s countenance, his father’s countenance, melting into something eerily blank, searching for emotions other than what has kept him going up to this day; the brightness of his pupil lessens to a dullness.

« …Numb. »

Macalaurë understands. There is an exhaustion even to pain.

He takes a deep breath. « You may come. As long as you behave. »

Curufinwë smiles in a way that curls his nose. « I _always_ behave, Cáno. »

*

As they trot around the shore of Lake Mithrim, towards their older forts’ settlements on the northern side, Macalaurë considers that he should have brought along Tyelperinquar. A passing thought.

The sulphurous mists hovering on the shores have made the air heavy and poisonous; the banks of foul mist cling to one’s hair and linger in one’s lungs for hours after treading the paths about the lake. The bright new star, low in the sky, colours the late afternoon with a jaundiced glow.

They have all covered their heads and mouths with cloths, and so it is that Ñolofinwë’s sentinels must ask them to reveal their faces.

The scarves unwrapped, the guards behold them with the restrained anger of ones who must follow the orders they were given, which, Macalaurë soon finds, also involve escorting them through the camp as soon as they dismount their horses. And though Macalaurë does not go crowned – not quite out of deference toward Ñolofinwë’s authority, but out of horror mingled with deference for a brother who might yet live and for the fate that befell him – though he does not go crowned, he still donned a heavy circlet of white gold.

It is therefore near astonishing to see how most eyes, and indeed most glares, cling to Curvo instead. Who, for his part, carries his chin and gaze so high and straight that one might think the people of Ñolofinwë’s camp hardly even exist.

Macalaurë wonders if Curvo didn’t come along for this precise reason. Yet, to his very own shame, there is a comfort to be found in the brazenness.

Which lasts, indeed, until they reach the wooden buildings of their old settlement, now claimed by their uncle.

Ñolofinwë stands before the entrance and is also uncrowned – Macalaurë suspects that is not because of lack of pride, rather lack of a crown to wear. When he was left in Araman, he wore none.

Nonetheless, he too wears a circlet, and a heavy white fur on his shoulders, and a shadow on his brow, a graver look that makes him a graver man. A sharpness, a hardness, shards of the Helcaraxë trapped in his eyes. This is the second time they meet face to face; the first was when his uncle’s host reached the hither lands.

But it is the first time he and his brothers meet ĺrissë.

And the first time Curvo lowers his eyes.

She leans against the outer wall of the large headquarters, her arms crossed over her white garments and a black anger pulling at her features.

Macalaurë doesn’t need to look at his brother to feel that he looks downwards – and no one would believe it, even if he were to tell the story.

Telvo does not lower his eyes. A mask of weary composure, he looks at her like he understands.

Then Ñolofinwë speaks.

« Welcome, Macalaurë. And your brothers, of course. » A pause, a breath, and he turns. « Come inside. »

*

The room looks much as his father’s army once left it, except they took away the great table and the heavy chairs, and all that had hung from the walls. It has left it bare, and the carvings they had etched into the wooden columns have been partially defaced – rather unsurprising, as Macalaurë supposes Ñolofinwë’s people didn’t wish to dwell in buildings covered with his father’s heraldries.

He notes with strange detachment that they did not touch the great ceiling carving; perhaps they couldn’t bring themselves to strike at its beauty, perhaps merely too much of a bother to reach it.

He and his brothers aren’t alone with Ñolofinwë.

The two guardsmen who accompanied them through the chilling, taut air of the camp stand at the two sides of the door like columns. Three small chairs are in the room: before the one on the right, Findekáno stands; on the left, Findaráto; and the middle one is soon claimed by Ñolofinwë. The two princes sit after him.

He and his brothers are offered none.

Macalaurë stands undaunted and greets their seated hosts by name; Telvo with a nod.

Findekáno nods his head back to them – the mingling of feelings on his face makes him hard to read, such as he never was in Valinor; a tiredness burdens the curve of his shoulders, a toughness lurks in the clench of his jaw, an openness in the blue of his eyes.

« Macalaurë, Ambarussa », says Findaráto, who is harder still to read. A thin golden necklace woven with emeralds rests on his chest, out of place over his battered clothes, and his unwontedly gaunt face is a mask of calm.

« Cousins. » The familial term sits oddly on Curvo’s tongue. They must all think so, because even Ñolofinwë turns to him, and Ñolofinwë had not looked directly at Curvo’s face once as they approached the building.

« Curufinwë. » Findaráto again, the name curled in his mouth with unbelievably composed courtesy.

Ñolofinwë opens his cloak with a slow, regal gesture. Underneath is a chainmail, over a robe of blue velvet that has lost its lustre, and a sword hanging from his belt, the tip of the scabbard scraping the floor. « Now that we have exchanged courtesies like civilised beings », he says, « I ought to bring attention to the reason why you were called. »

« My brother lives? »

« He does. »

Ñolofinwë speaks differently in person than he did in the message. Macalaurë wonders if perhaps he should not have searched for someone else’s input in the neatly penned tengwar; was part of it Findekáno’s hand? How many times were the lines revised, rewritten, softened?

Macalaurë breathes in. « Is he here? »

« He rests on a bed in the inner rooms. »

 _And in what manner – in what manner shall I be damned in my inaction?_ Macalaurë’s eyes lift to the wall, as if he could pierce it, as if he could sharpen his ears, well-accustomed to the discerning of sounds, enough to hear Nelyo’s breathing.

« And how », Curvo asks, and Macalaurë feels as if his thoughts were read, « did this come to pass? Has Findekáno set foot in the fortress? »

Ñolofinwë turns to him. « My understanding, _Curufinwë_ », he says it slowly, exerting a self-control in the way he pronounces the syllables, « is that my son set forth in his lone quest so that, if he were to succeed however small his chances, his deed could eventually heal the feud between us. A strange solution, putting you in our debt, but so be it. »

Findekáno’s hand curls with tension over his knee.

« Nonetheless, I think I shall let him tell the story, as he was there personally. »

A current of thoughts runs between Ñolofinwë and his son as they exchange a meaningful gaze, one Macalaurë is not privy to – healing and saving, and a hasty choice, and whether it was out of goodness of heart or other reasons, Macalaurë cannot tell. But he knows that Findekáno and Nelyo were affectionate friends, once.

« I did not set foot in Angamando, though not for lack of trying. » Findekáno lets go of a long breath. « The peaks are shrouded in darkness even at noontide, and the air is thick with smoke. I climbed high, looking for hidden entrances – and believe me, I looked long and hard – but found none. The view of the land from above the bank of mists is… desolate. A dreary thing, and the monsters of the enemy all but hide in the crevasses among the mountains, spitting their foulness downwards… » His eyes, for a moment, trail away. « So I took out my lyre and sang in spite. »

Findekáno doesn’t conjure images with his words, yet speaks honestly. One can tell from the way his face opens with imperceptible relief.

« Russandol answered me. From up high on the wall of rock, he took up the song, and then called me. »

Macalaurë is still, a dizziness not unlike what he felt when he first read the message seizing him again. 

So that is how Findekáno found him.

By _singing_.

« I climbed as high as I could reach, but the cliff face grew but steeper, until I had no belays or footholds. He was… »

Findekáno pauses and there is little attempt to hide his anguish. Even his father and Findaráto have lowered their eyes, and Macalaurë sways on his feet – _come, say it, tell me what you must and let us get this over with._

« …He was hanging from the cliff, chained at his wrist. I looked for a way to reach him, be it from below or from the sides or descending from above, but I would not find it. I suppose he knew there was none. Whatever monstrous power had put him there, it was not constrained by the limitations of the hröa of an elf. »

_I beg that you say what you must, Findekáno._

This time, the thought reaches his cousin. Findekáno’s blue eyes lift to Macalaurë and stay on him, lakes too clear for his own good. The room’s silence bides its time.

« He asked me to end his torment », Findekáno exhales. « I looked at him, Macalaurë. I really did look. So I pulled out my bow and nocked an arrow, and didn’t do so lightly. I cried out to Manwë. » An incredulous little snort. « I hardly know why. Recall some pity for us, I said. Lord to whom all birds are dear, speed my feathered arrow. In the hour of our need, grant me a clean kill. »

Ñolofinwë shifts on his chair, the fur and velvet rustling as if they’ve taken it upon themselves to voice a subdued distress even when his face remains unreadable. Findaráto doesn’t move at all, his eyes fixed to the side, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles have paled.

Macalaurë doesn’t look at his brothers.

« But », Findekáno whispers, « the King of Eagles came. »

Turco’s voice echoes in him – _a bird of Manwë_.

« He let me climb upon his back and took me upwards in one great wingbeat, but when I was by the cliff, when I came to him – I still couldn’t destroy his bonds. » A soft and bitter laugh, so faint. « I brought no hammers with me, you see. Yet, did I try, Macalaurë. Did I try. My sword is ruined from it. »

Silence. Again, silence.

« I brought him back, of course, but I had to cut off his hand for it. »

Macalaurë breathes in. He moves his eyes from his cousin to his uncle. The white light coming in from the door glares down the stupor of his thoughts, sharpening profiles to a soreness. « We shall », he says, focusing on the weight of the circlet upon his forehead, « make you a new sword. »

Ñolofinwë turns, slowly, to Curvo. « Does this », he says, « answer the question? »

What is Curvo thinking? Perhaps that _he_ would have brought a hammer, that he would have known where to strike at the chains holding his brother; much as Macalaurë could have stretched his voice farther and more mightily than his cousin, than all of them.

But would have Thorontar come for them?

Would _they_ have called upon him?

« So he is here. Was he left alone? », Curvo says.

« A healer is with him at all times, _obviously_. »

Macalaurë watches his uncle stare at his brother, and his brother stare back, and knows he must, he must take back the room, must chase away the daze, must be the one to speak next. So he does.

« When the ships burned », he begins – and does that claim everyone’s eyes at once, does it drag the curtain open, as if to reveal a sculpture whose hulking, cumbersome shape could easily be guessed through the drape, « my brother stood aside. He was the one who wanted to send back for you. If Findekáno wished to heal this ocean-wide feud between your houses and mine, he saved one who had never wanted to forsake you to begin with. So he may have, in some form, perhaps succeeded. »

Findaráto breathes in, breaking the illusion of his hieratic calm. « Very thoughtful of him », he says, his voice soft but vibrating at the edges.

There is a spark.

A flash from Curvo’s mind that Macalaurë catches like a pinch to his skin and at once dams before any of the others has a chance to feel it land in their thoughts.

 _Curvo_ , he warns.

 _He ought to stop_ , the answer from his brother sizzles, Curvo’s eyes nailed on Findaráto, _playing at his father. He is not good at it. Poke him and watch him burst._

But Ñolofinwë leans forward on his chair before Macalaurë can answer, both his hands coming to rest on his thighs. « He stood aside », he says, slowly; one could almost see reality rearrange itself before his eyes. He is testing the words, waiting to see if they might snap in half. His eyes fix on Macalaurë, and ironically, it is easier to withstand his uncle’s gaze than whatever is happening on Findekáno’s face. « But you didn’t », Ñolofinwë continues. « Is that what I am understanding? None of you did, except your brother. »

A pause, and in the pause Telvo’s mind rustles against his. He wishes to talk – might as well let him.

« When my father ordered the ships burned », Telvo says, his voice sliding in the conversation with a strange geniality, « Nelyo said, now, what ships and rowers will you spare to return, and whom shall they bear hither first? » His mouth pulls into something of a smile, tugging gently at tender white scars upon his cheek. « Findekáno the Valiant? »

He would need poetry, Macalaurë thinks, to truly describe the expression that has taken hold of his cousin’s traits.

« I am told », Telvo continues, « those were his exact words. »

Ñolofinwë tilts his head. « You were _told_? »

Telvo’s smile opens with a fey sharpness; the sheen of his scars hugs his jaw and disappears under the dark collar of his doublet, a trace of flames where his skin melted. « Perhaps, uncle, I shall tell that story another time. Then you will know where we all were, and why. Another time, when even our quips shall pick their targets with a little more fairness. »

Fairness – the boldness and utter nerve of choosing that word.

Another breath, from Findaráto. « He stood aside, Ambarussa », he says, a light furrow upon his brow like a crease on silk, and a regret in his eyes like a suggestion, « but he did not stop it. Why was it not stopped? Why was it allowed to come to pass? »

« Oh, cousin. » Telvo’s smile turns indulgent. « You were not there. Nelyo could not have stopped it. Not him, not you, certainly not I – »

 _Shut his mouth, Cáno_ – Curvo’s thoughts bristle.

« – The only thing that could have stopped my father then – »

_Shut his mouth..._

« – Was the death that took him. »

 _…before I throttle him personally_.

Macalaurë takes a breath. « Ñolofinwë », he calls, and his voice rings strong, stifling thoughts and retorts, claiming his turn with ease. And then softens and mellows with a smoothness to match Findaráto’s. « Whatever else you may think of me, let it be of comfort to you that your son risked his life to rescue the worthiest of us. You wrote me with a personal note of haste, to urge me to come as soon as I could. I came. So, if you have it in your heart to grant me this, now I would see my brother. » He exhales. « There is time for everything else yet. »

They look at each other, Ñolofinwë’s gaze cool and stark; the ice did chisel away at his face, the bones protruding with uncharacteristic thinness; but it did age him also, bringing out a haunting likeness to Macalaurë’s grandfather.

His uncle leans back against the chair. « It seems to me », he begins so very slowly, « that I am always the one to make concessions. It seems that I am always the one who spends long hours talking himself into being the better man. » His breath vibrates. « But. I do not lie when I say I respected your brother. » Eyes into eyes, still. « And I am not cruel. Not so hard-hearted that I would deny you this. »

Macalaurë fills his ribcage with the heavy air of the lake. He inclines his head to the right, for a moment closing his eyes. « …Thank you. »

Ñolofinwë stands in one solemn movement, and at once so do Findekáno and Findaráto.

« Come, Macalaurë. This way. »

***

Ñolofinwë enters first, then Findekáno.

Cáno follows just afterwards, but his steps check. Telvo walks around his brother, disappearing from the narrow view from the door.

Curufinwë can see the feet of a bed, and a tattered drape drawn over the window in the room, dimming the light away, an uncomfortable penumbra. The texture of the flap of cloth he holds open at the threshold rubs roughly against his knuckles – when has cloth in Valinor ever been this rough?

He steps under the lintel – and Cáno is kneeling. By the bed, he is kneeling with his shoulders bent and his hands on the edges of the mattress, and there is a body lying under white sheets, Curufinwë could almost make out russet hair by the pillow, but it is too short…

Ñolofinwë’s hand reaches out and then changes trajectory mid-air – whom was it going to touch?

The room is saturated with a smell. Herbs, a stomach-sickening iron pang.

Curufinwë steps back, the flap sliding closed.

No. No, he shall not do this.

He turns, face to face with Findaráto, who always tries his best to school his face into serenity, who has put all his emotion in the tight clasp of his hands, holding each other below his waist.

« Do you not visit your brother? », his cousin inquires, curiosity modulated to flatness.

Not when Nelyo cannot talk or see or hear, not when he is used as the price of their welcome, more simulacrum than man; not when Cáno buys forgiveness with his red-rimmed eyes. Curufinwë shall not bargain pity with the ashes of his father, with the torment of his brother, with the performance of his grief.

« Hardly your business, Findaráto », he replies, his voice coming out lower than he intended it.

His cousin’s lips thin down to a line, yet his eyes open and already he is exhaling soundlessly, as if deflating, as if purging himself of what he might have said.

« I find no pleasure in your pain, cousin », Findaráto says, faint resignation in his tones, and Curufinwë’s belly is seized by nausea at the idea that he might have been read.

His jaw clenches. « Do you not? »

« …Is that what you think of me? »

« Do you not think that it is fair that we should suffer? », Curufinwë presses, unable to stop his nose from curling at the sides, pushed upwards by the twist of his lips. « Do you not in your heart think it a fair price? »

« Is that what _you_ think, Curufinwë? » The thin necklace of gold and emeralds, the colours of his House, shifts on his chest with a swish. « In _your_ heart, under the shadow of your father— »

Curufinwë could turn to mercury, to molten metal, slide into his nose, sink into his lungs so he may speak no other word. Why did he come? He wanted to see Ñolofinwë’s face, and he wanted Ñolofinwë to see his. And he wanted to stand with Macalaurë, and see that Nelyo truly was alive – and now here he is, and he cannot bear the thought of watching another wrecked body burn from within and turn to smoke.

Why did he come?

His mouth opens to speak, but Findaráto has fallen to sudden silence and his eyes are downcast and has lifted a bony hand between them, its palm facing Curufinwë, as if to stall him, as if to feign surrender.

« No », Findaráto murmurs. « I will not do this. »

A female voice talks softly inside the room.

Findaráto lowers his hand. « As your brother says, another time, when even our quips shall pick their targets will a little more fairness. » Thus his cousin turns wordlessly, without goodbye, sliding away down the corridor, ever-deflecting, and Curufinwë realises with numbed bitterness that he has no strength to chase him.

« Someone must be with him. », Cáno’s voice, a weak murmur, comes from the room. « I cannot stay, I must go back and… »

« I shall be here through the night », the female voice again, the healer.

« So shall I », Findekáno’s, with resolve.

« If my uncle is gracious enough to grant it and my sire to allow it, I shall also stay for as long as I must », Telvo asks, without the pitching of a question.

Curufinwë steps away from the door, a few steps down the corridor. He and his brothers and their people raised these pillars of wood, three decades ago; they replaced the roof of branches with a roof of clay when the rain began to seep in; they carved memories and heraldries in the jambs, carved the wood for they had no stone at the ready with which to build.

His fingertips rest on the wood, feel the indents. His uncle is speaking, but Curufinwë lets the words melt into each other ‘till his ears can no longer distinguish them.

***

Turco has been sitting above the entrance gate like a hawk ready to take flight. It is the trill of his horn, followed by Huan’s barking, that first warns that Cáno is returning.

Carnistir swipes his knife against the strop a last time, then sheathes it and gathers the leather strap around his finger, dropping it in his satchel.

The sun already disappeared beyond the mountains of Mithrim; it colours the sky with vespertine red. Many a servant gathers around the returning party, carrying blue lamps in their hands, so that their light mingles with the colour of the heavens on the face of his brothers.

« Step back », Carnistir calls to the approaching, smothering little crowd.

Macalaurë’s squire comes to the steed of his lord, holds its neck as Macalaurë descends. « Your Majesty… »

And Carnistir knows even before it is spoken, from the shine in Cáno’s eyes. « Your Highness », he corrects, strained in his voice. « Nelyafinwë was rescued, and I wear no crown for as long as he lives. »

A sharp intake of breath, just behind Carnistir’s shoulder, Tyelkormo’s thoughts hardening, rippling – Carnistir swirls on his feet and faces him, his frown thunderous, his index finger pointed at him in warning. Tyelkormo glances at him with sudden surprise, then sharply throws his hands up in the air and turns, ungracious in his surrender.

The squire leads the horse away, but Macalaurë follows them to the stables. And then Curvo dismounts in steely silence, as do the two lieutenants, and it is easy to notice that the party is missing one.

Pityo slides out of the golden darkness of sunset as a wolf from the undergrowth, azure and red playing alien tricks on his hair. « Well? Where is my brother? »

Cáno’s hands trouble themselves with the saddle, shaking. « He is with Nelyo, he remained. »

Carnistir stands at the edges, between the people gathered and his brothers. Uncomfortably and empathically familiar in mood, Pityo’s shoulders stiffen, his fingers curl into loose fists. « He is _with Ñolofinwë’s people_? You left him _there_? »

« At his _request_ », Cáno snaps unwontedly. He turns, the lamplight hits him strangely, his eyes are sunken in the chiaroscuro. « What is this distrust, Pityo? Shall we name it truly and call it guilt? »

And even were it easier to disentangle worry from vexation, Curvo is too forceful in his steps out of the stable and Pityo too quick in his retort to leave Carnistir room to say anything at all.

« Oh, get fucked, Cáno, and off that high horse. »

There is a flare of heat, of anger unbridled, of power unleashed, and it is most shocking for Carnistir to find that it doesn’t come from himself. Macalaurë’s voice takes the breeze and the light, the azure and the red, and snaps them into a shock. « _I shall not have you talk as an orc! I shall have your respect, even if not your agreement! And now, all of you_ – », his eyes glare at their gathered people, gathered at something of a safe distance, « – _back to your posts!_ » He steps out of the stable, tramping away towards their headquarters, and none stops him.

Pityo stands still, shuddering. He looks up, thin-lipped and wide-eyed, and meets Carnistir’s look. « …So? Do you have a comment, Moryo? »

« Aplenty. »

But he too turns and swiftly walks away, finding some comfort in the energy of his marching.

*

Carnistir opens the door to the council room and a push of rejection and distress, as Macalaurë lifts his head, shoves him backwards nigh-bodily. It would be easier to slam the door closed again than withstand it. Easier for the bruise to his pride and spirit.

But Macalaurë’s face changes with understanding, and crumples as he looks away. « No, wait. Don’t go – I am sorry. »

The apology is exhausted. Soothing in its defeat, it smooths down his furrowed brow. Carnistir’s hold on the handle loosens; he abandons the threshold’s liminality and walks into the room, the door closing behind him. In the northern fort, the oaken table had eight seats; when they moved to the southern shore, more recently, only six chairs were put around it. They had not accounted for Nelyo to ever return – at least, Cáno had not.

« So it is true », he says. « Findekáno found him. »

Cáno gapes, looking for words. When he finds them, they are painfully simple and matter of fact. « Yes. Yes, he did. »

Cursing Moringotho with hatred undying is simple, effortless. But whom should he also curse, here? Carnistir half sits on the table, one foot on the floor, the other dangling in the air, his arms crossed. Macalaurë sits at the head of the table as if on a bed of nails and sharp rocks, in perfect mirroring of his crumpled self when he first read the message, earlier in the day.

« The talk with Ñolofinwë was… », Cáno continues, breathing out a helpless chuckle, « excruciating. I half wished you were there, it would have made it all that much faster. »

Carnistir snorts, but his amusement is shallow and short-lived. There is a pause – then he asks. « Where was he? Nelyo. How did he find him? »

Macalaurë gestures without words. Awfully vulnerable, the way it reveals his inner wrist and palm. « It seems, chained hanging from Thangorodrim. »

« What? »

« He had to – he cut off Nelyo’s hand to – »

Carnistir stands on his feet again. « His hand? What! »

That gesture again. « I tell you, Moryo, truly – that may be the most recent and blatant of the injuries, and yet be the least of them. Whatever was done to him, I cannot – », Macalaurë’s voice trembles and shudders, his eyes open and unblinking, « – I cannot fathom it. I cannot. The evil of it, I can’t… »

But Carnistir steps forward as the present pain in a voice that never cracks drowns out the knowledge of a more distant shock. His hands go to Cáno’s hair, his fingers dig in the dark locks; he pulls away that circlet of white gold and rests it on the table, and at once he is cradling his brother’s head to his stomach. Cáno’s hand grabs his forearm and clings so tightly around the leather of his clothes.

Macalaurë is shaking in his embrace, but he is not crying. 

And through the shaking come thoughts, bursts of the conversation he has had – Findekáno’s voice recounting the deed, and Findaráto’s words, and Ñolofinwë’s – and of the things he has seen, and the people – ĺrissë staring by the entrance, and Telvo’s smile both condescending and full of tiredness, and of course, Nelyo himself.

« I think perhaps », Macalaurë murmurs, despairing, « I should have led us all to ruin, after all. »

« I would have ridden there with you. »

« Oh, Moryo, I know. I know. »

 _And that is why I would not allow it_.

This whisper slides through the other thoughts, hidden in their midst, like an eel slipping between one’s fingers, and Carnistir doubts he was meant to hear it.

« You believe it should have been us », Macalaurë continues, a wetness growing in his voice, « and you are right. It should have been us. »

Carnistir’s back stiffens as he looks downwards at his brother’s face, hidden against his clothes, pressed there as if in hiding, his brother held by his hands and arms – yes, it should have been them. Yes, he argued for it when the loss was still fresh, he argued for it when Moringotho sent an envoy to barter their departure with Nelyo’s release. No bartering, no negotiating with the thief and murderer – father had forbidden it for good reason.

It ought to have been them. Then, they would have owed nothing to Findekáno’s smugness. Or, at least, they would have owed less.

Macalaurë exhales. « If you hold back for my sake, thank you. »

Carnistir’s face twists up like parchment, but his fingers dig into Cáno’s hair and sift through it, caress it; he lets Cáno tremble in silence. A silence that is as heavy as the mists of Mithrim, it clings to the skin like drenched clothes and sweat.

« You could have stayed with him », Carnistir suggests, eventually. He doesn’t ask whether Nelyo _will_ survive the night; for that question, he makes up his own answer out of hope, even if hope is such a faulty alloy with which to forge one’s weapons.

« And not returned here for the night? » Macalaurë snorts softly. « You would have come looking, and then I would have had a true fratricide on my hands. »

« Messengers do exist, Cáno. »

« I suppose they do. Would you have listened? »

« No. »

Far more likely that he would have, if written by his brother’s hand. But there comes a tired, so tired little chuckle, and that, _that_ is what he wanted to hear. Carnistir’s hand rests on his brother’s nape.

« Telvo is there », Macalaurë whispers. « I shall go back in the early morn and see if sleep tonight can find me. »

Another caress, another hope – that either of them will be able to rest at all.

***

Tyelperinquar unfurls the leather on the table. Inside lies the sword.

Sharp-pointed and sharp-edged, the fuller runs down its forte and middle section to culminate in the central ridge, the groove etched with twirls. The rain-guard and cross-guard have been forged into eagle wings, a steely elegance to slim down the strong blade.

Above the leather-wrapped hilt, a white gem is mounted in the pommel, shining with delicate opalescence under the light.

« If it is fit for Findekáno, tell him I thank him for returning my uncle back to us », Tyelperinquar says, gesturing at his handiwork.

« I shall. »

Macalaurë’s fingers trace the minutely engraved feathers. They are so beautiful one might believe that metal could take flight.

**Author's Note:**

> Immense thank you to [Admirable Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster) for the betaing work, as well as to [Athenais Karthagonensis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenaiskarthagonensis) for the same and her Caranthir insights. A huge thank you to [Zaatar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaatar/pseuds/Zaatar) for her priceless Finrod headcanons (much of it made it into the fic) and to [Ettelene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon) for letting me brainstorm about him. And finally a thank you to Erica and [Avbi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avbi) for the memes and support.
> 
> Y'all probably noticed I had Telvo/Ambarto get... a little toasted in the ship burning, without dying. This was supposed to get addressed in a scene between him and Fingon, but I decided to cut it. If I do continue this with more scenes and POVs, it will get slipped in.
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading!


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